Midnight
by Lucky Gun
Summary: Post-movie. After Loki, they all sleep, only because he doesn't sleep at all. Or, five nights the team slept well, and the one night they returned the favor to the Hawk that guarded them all. No pairings or slash.


Title: Midnight

Author: Lucky Gun

Summary: Post-movie. After Loki, they all sleep, only because he doesn't sleep at all. Or, five nights the team slept well, and the one night they returned the favor to the Hawk that guarded them all. No pairings or slash.

A/N: This came to me while falling asleep last night and since I'm making good head way on my other Avengers story, Bruises, I figured I could take today to pound this out. Hope you enjoy! Clint-centric as usual, but with full team involvement.

* * *

The first night, it was Thor.

He fought himself out of a nightmare with a foreign curse and a swing of his fist. He breathed deeply, heavily, sweat sticking to him like the thick fog that rolled right up to the palace walls some days. Then he realized, he wasn't on Asgard, in his spacious quarters, in the deep inner chambers of the great castle. Instead, he was in a shining tower of metal and glass, lights all around, none of them stars. He glanced at the display beside him, reading the time the way he was taught to by Jane; it was just after midnight.

He stared at the rather expansive room he was given and ran a hand through his long hair. Knowing sleep wouldn't come again, he stood and began wandering through the tower, the unofficial home for all members of the Avengers Initiative. He scoffed a bit as the name crossed his mind, but reigned himself in. He knew the value of powerful reminders, and the retribution the team promises on everyone who dare strike the people of Earth was indeed a strong one.

So he quieted himself and meandered silently through the halls. Given the upraising he'd had with the raucous warriors he usually fought with, the quiet was almost unnerving. But he couldn't do anything to awaken his teammates. Loki was still there, creeping the dark halls of their minds, and they deserved what rest they could garner.

"Trouble sleeping?" a soft voice asked at his elbow, and he spun, arm up, instinctively attempting to clothesline the person who disturbed him.

As a demigod from Norse mythology, he was surprised when steel-like strength caught his arm in a block and whipped him around, the attack ending, the intent to deflect only. He stared through the gloom and recognized the man who had startled him, the one his brother had dealt so much harm to.

"I see it finds you as well as it finds me, Hawk," he offered blandly, his voice infinitely quieter than it could have been.

The archer cast an assessing eye over him, and they stared at each other in silence for a moment before the other man turned and gestured for Thor to follow him, offering no explanation. Confused but eager to get rid of the hyperactive energy running through him, the Asgardian followed.

They traveled down stairs and through halls, eventually coming into a large, padded room. There were strange tools and devices everywhere along the walls and the sides, and in the middle, there was a large square platform. Thor turned to his teammate and took a good long look at him.

Clint returned his gaze, no flinch in his gray eyes that had been so icy blue for so long, and his stance was easy. Thor didn't doubt the man could jump from that position into any other position in a breath, and he recognized the intense training with appreciation.

"Care to go a few rounds?" Barton asked, and Thor's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.

He glanced at the boxing ring and turned back to Clint, clarifying, "Me, a god, against you, a mere human?"

The tight twitch of the agent's eyes disappeared before the Asgardian had a chance to really recognize it, and he said, "Yeah, against me, a mere human. Just for practice; don't throw me through a wall."

Cocking his head, Thor hesitantly agreed, deciding it would at least be a good time to work on form. So they ducked into the ring, Clint giving him a few pointers on the springiness of the mat and the stretchiness of the ropes, and then they circled each other.

Clint was clad in his SHIELD-issued jacket and cargo pants, his boots clean enough that they didn't leave dust marks on the mat. He wore nothing but a set of fingertip gloves on his hands, and his gaze was steady over the distance between them. Thor wore his least-restricting armor, the clothes molded to fit him by lightning itself; he could move easily.

And as they started, Thor was surprised. The man was quick and agile, his well-applauded vision giving him the capacity to see every strike before it even came close to hitting. Intrigued, he stepped up his moves a bit, sacrificing speed for strength, as it was obvious he didn't have a chance if he played it that way.

But even when he thought he'd backed the archer into a corner, the man would twist or bend or flip and somehow be on the other side of him again, landing light but telling blows to Thor's unprotected back, sides, arms. So Thor really sunk into the fight, maintaining his force for the sake of the human's well being, and they sparred for what felt like ages.

Somehow, miraculously, when they finished, Thor was exhausted, dripping with sweat, and Clint was barely breathing hard. Bending over and bracing himself on his knees, the warrior from outer space nodded heavily.

"You are a good fighter, Hawk. And a good friend. Thank you for this," he panted, and the expression that crossed Clint's face was a mixture of surprise and gratitude.

Thor, feeling all the weight of his battles from the moment he entered Earth's atmosphere, staggered a bit, and the archer was immediately beside him, one arm around his back, the other pulling Thor's arm over his shoulders. They walked slowly through the halls, taking the elevators this time, and when they reached the demigod's bedroom, Clint stopped at the door.

"Thank you again, my friend," Thor said, genuinely, as he stepped into the room, and the SHIELD agent gave a simple nod and walked away.

Thor watched him go through a crack in his door, grief for his brother's actions playing against the relief he felt at the man's determined recovery from them, and he shuffled back to his bed.

He slept through the rest of the night.

* * *

The second night, it was Bruce.

He was laying in bed for hours, it could've been, staring up at the ceiling, mind running over formulas and equations and the price of a good meal in Calcutta. He was fully clothed on top of his covers, the city lights half-dimmed by the technological marvel that was Jarvis, and he exhaled sharply as he rubbed a hand over his face after seeing the time; it was only midnight.

"Feeling green at the moment?"

The doctor didn't like surprises, but somehow, he didn't start at the quiet words that floated through his room. He continued his staring contest with the decorative stucco and huffed what could've been a choked laugh.

"No, no just wishing I could sleep and not worry about breaking, you know, New York while I was at it," he said.

There was a handful of heartbeats before the disembodied voice questioned, "You think there's a chance you can Hulk-sleepwalk?"

Bruce resisted the urge to roll his eyes, recognizing the dig for information as what it was. It had never happened, but he didn't think that it should ever be played down.

"The other guy sometimes wants to go for a walk to clear his head. It just usually gets really messy when he does; I tend not to let him out without a leash," Banner said, and there was nothing but the low hum of electricity for several minutes.

"But it is possible?"

Somehow, there wasn't a single tone of condescension in those words, and Bruce swallowed hard.

"I don't know," he responded honestly, and he closed his eyes tight against the helpless, awful truth that, God, he really didn't know.

In the dead silence of the room, it was hard not to hear the long draw of a bow and the sound of metal against braided nylon.

Bruce pushed himself up on his elbows and stared through the semi-darkness to the corner of his room, a shaft of light catching two things: the tip of an arrow, and the gleam of stormy eyes. For some reason, a master assassin pointing his preferred weapon at a man wasn't as much cause for alarm as it should be.

"You going to kill me, Barton?" he asked with a small smile, though he knew the opposite was true.

Proving it, Clint loosened the tension on the bow and let the arrow drop into his waiting hand. He held it up, that same bit of light illuminating it, and Bruce could see the needle that graced the tip.

"The best sedatives SHIELD could create. Guaranteed to knock the Hulk out in less than two minutes. And I don't miss."

The last claim was a fact, not the haughty words of a braggart, and Bruce let himself drop back to the bed, frowning slightly. He remembered, hazily, that the Hulk had let Clint stand right at his back during the fight, and he somehow got the notion that the other guy actually enjoyed the archer's company. In fact, there wasn't even the thick roil of threat response in his mind. It was like the other guy knew that Barton wouldn't ever try to kill him.

"So, what? You just stand in the corner of my room and guard me with a syringe while I sleep?" the doctor asked, eyes closing and words slurring a bit as exhaustion stole over him, and he missed the flash of emotion in the archer's eyes.

"If that's what it takes," came the whispered reply, and Bruce thought he caught a bit of determination in those words as he drifted off, sleeping soundly that night and many more.

* * *

The third night, it was Steve.

The man hadn't even tried to sleep after the lights went out all over the tower. He just made his way to the roof and stared out over the city as he breathed in the smell of smog and listened to the sound of sirens. It was possibly the only place he felt like he wasn't seventy years into his future. It seemed the only thing that had stayed constant were city pollution and crime.

But tonight, for some reason, the rooftop wasn't easing the itch in his brain like it normally did. He needed to move, to bend and jump and run, to feel wind in his hair and his muscles burn. So intent he was on the fire under his skin that he didn't hear the intentionally heavy footsteps approach him.

"You speak French, Rogers?"

Starting, Steve jumped backwards, hands automatically coming up. His visitor pretended not to notice the response. Frowning, Steve stared at the man in front of him.

"What was that?" he asked dumbly, and Clint glanced across the tower as he crossed his arms; the man was in his regular black cargo pants, but he wore a sleeveless black tee shirt and black trainers instead of his usual vest and combat boots.

"French. Do you speak French?" he asked again, and Steve shook his head, curious as to where the archer was going with this.

But before he said anything else, he turned and walked towards the elevator, and Steve followed him instantly. They took the lift straight to the ground floor, the rapidity of the drop turning the super soldier's stomach, and he listened intently to Barton's toneless explanation.

"From the French word _parcours_ came a discipline of unstructured movement throughout a course. It's called parkour, or free running. You try to get wherever you're going in as quick and efficient route as possible. Obstacles are not obstacles, they're tools to get you closer to your goal, if you even have one. You up for it?" he asked as they exited the elevator.

Steve followed him outside the tower into the cool midnight, and he glanced around, hesitant. He was afraid there'd be reporters, but so far, SHIELD had been successful in keeping them back. He glanced back at Barton, who was eying a squat apartment complex across the street with an intensity he usually reserved for his targets.

"So, you basically run and jump and climb to get wherever?" Rogers asked, and Barton nodded once before abruptly taking off.

Steve watched breathlessly as the man darted across the street, hood sliding across a parked car, and vaulted a bench with ease. He ran straight at the side of the brick building and then ran _up_ the wall about ten feet, pushing off with his legs and grabbing the bottom of a balcony above him. He swung himself up, jumped on the banister of the apartment's balcony, and jumped from there to the balcony next door. Clint jogged along the banister without a single misstep – Steve remembered the man had grown up working in a circus – and he abruptly leapt from the railing to the tall flag pole about eight feet away from the building. He caught it, shimmied up it about another ten feet, then jumped off, landing on the graveled roof of the apartment building. He rolled to his feet and glanced over the edge at Steve, who was still watching him with his mouth open.

At Clint's wave, Steve shrugged a bit and asked himself, _Why not?_ So he took off, following the same path Barton did, his movements a little less refined and polished but still able. When he made it to the roof, the agent gave him a solid nod.

"Good job for your first time. I figured you'd be able to handle that level of difficulty with your elevated physiology. Ready?" Clint asked.

Steve adjusted his boots, grateful they were so broken in, and he shucked his long sleeve shirt in favor of the tee shirt under it. He folded it and put it at the corner of the roof, knowing he could come back for it later. Then he stood straight, nodded to Clint, and the pair took off. They parkoured around Manhattan for hours, the archer leading the way as Steve got used to the groove. Then Barton backed off and let Steve lead, both of them circling the city.

By the time they got back to the tower, the solider was no longer wondering how the SHIELD agent kept in shape or stayed so agile. His muscles were shaking with exertion, and sweat trailed down his face. But he felt more at ease than he'd yet felt in this time, and Barton had taken the opportunity to give him a bit of a tour, pointing out landmarks and explaining history.

Snagging his shirt from the roof of the apartment building adjacent to the tower, he used it as a towel and wiped off his face, drying the back of his neck.

"Hey, thanks for this," he said, voice even, and Clint nodded noncommittally in his direction.

The soldier frowned a little, wondering if he was truly seeing a smattering of bruising under the other man's eyes, but the archer was gone before he could further examine it. Steve watched him slide down the flag pole beside the complex and walk steadily into Stark Tower. Shaking his head, Steve followed a few minutes later. He headed towards his room and took a hot shower, water sluicing away the sweat and city grime, dried, dressed, and climbed into bed.

He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

* * *

The fourth night, it was Tony.

The man was locked in his lab, music blaring, nothing but the dull thump of the bass making its way beyond the soundproofed walls. He was struggling with a new sleek body armor for the team, something to help keep the more human of them from getting killed. He wasn't too worried about Banner – he figured with the Hulk inside, that guy was about as safe as any of them. But he was worried about the SHIELD agents. And him, of course, because without his suit he was just as vulnerable as the rest of them.

And he was worried about Pepper.

Pushing that thought of of his mind, he continued shuffling through the details on the screen, eyes darting over the data, ignoring the way too late time in the corner of the screen. He typed at his keyboard intently, hearing the production line behind him whir as it struggled to keep up with his demands.

Abruptly, his music shut off, right in the middle of AC/DC's Highway to Hell, and he snapped, "Jarvis, I thought I told you to never turn off my music unless somebody's dead or dying."

The smooth, unperturbed voice of the AI answered, "Indeed, sir. You also stated I should mute the audio whenever another member of the Avengers made an unannounced entrance."

Looking up and blinking, Tony glanced around his empty workshop, seeing no one.

"So, Casper's on the team now, is he?" Tony asked distractedly, wondering if he was going to have to update the AI's sensors.

But Jarvis breezily informed, "Agent Barton is in the duct work directly above you and apparently has been for some time. My sensors only registered his presence when his heat signature transferred through the ceiling into the shop."

Tony shrugged and, without looking up, said, "Get your ass down here, Barton. I need your bow."

There wasn't even a half second of silence before the duct cover popped open and the archer dropped soundlessly to the floor. Tony turned and gave him a slight look of disgust at the fine layer of dust that coated the man's uniform.

"Jarvis, order a new HEPA filtration unit, or ten. Get them installed tomorrow," he said absently to the computer, and then he turned back to Clint, eyes on his loaded quiver.

"Those things can shoot through anything, right?"

Clint frowned and replied, "Depends on the arrowhead. What were you trying to shoot?"

Tony walked towards a hastily set-up target range and pointed at a dummy that had Steve's photo from a magazine pasted on the head, a black piece of fabric about one square inch in the middle of the dummy's chest, held in place by duct tape.

"Us. Well, not us. Trying to keep us from getting shot. Or at least killed. Can you hit that chest piece?"

The look Clint gave him reminded Tony to never, ever doubt the man's accuracy if he wanted to live. So the man pulled his bow and nocked an arrow, staring over the shaft with a practiced eye, the fifty foot distance a simple breath of air for him. Then he released the arrow, watched it fly, and blinked, disturbed, as it hit the target...

...And fell to the ground.

Beside him, Tony whooped and clapped his hands together, grinning widely.

"All right! So that's bullets, needles, arrows, and explosions it can withstand. Think we've got a winner. Thanks, Legolas," he said, patting the assassin on his shoulder, and the archer stared at him as he walked away.

"What is it?" he asked, sidling up to the target and fingering the small patch; it felt like cotton.

At his computer, Tony waved a hand and said, "It's a hypoelastic piece of rubberized titanium. It flows like cloth usually, but add pressure..."

Clint tucked his bow back on his back and came to stand next to Tony as he asked, "So, it's a colloid? It stiffens when subjected to pressure?"

Tony paused and gave him a sideways glance, one the agent easily returned. Abruptly diving into the mechanics of creating the armor, he found Barton a relatively bright mind to bounce ideas off of. Though the man was by no means a genius, he was more than versed the physics and mathematics, something that made sense to Tony, given the fact that the man dealt exclusively with both those sciences with every shot.

Three hours later, two prototypes were completed and Tony was drunk on Johnny Walker Blue. He was stumbling over himself, tripping over his own feet, and he fell into Barton, who was careful to keep the other man's drink from spilling on the computer. Tony laughed heartily at the man's careful snatch for the glass, and Clint started gently hauling Tony from the workshop to the elevator that led to his room.

"You know, I never figured you for the smart type. I mean, don't get me wrong, Archie, but you figure SHIELD agents are grunts and morons. You know?" Tony slurred, his eyes drooping, and Clint caught the man's weight as he staggered again.

"I mean, like Pepper. Most people think she's just a pretty face, but she's smart, you know? She's smart and beautiful and she's put up with me for the last decade, plus some. And now she's caught up in all this, and..." Tony trailed off as Clint stopped in front of his bedroom door.

The agent gave him a simple look and said softly, "She wouldn't have it any other way, Stark."

Tony frowned a bit, staring hard at the man who was practically carrying him, and he knew he should be worried about the paleness of Barton's skin, the dry cracks in his lips, the deepening darkness under his eyes. But all he could think about was Pepper.

When Clint suddenly reached forward and knocked, Tony thought he'd lost his mind. But then the door opened, and there was his goddess, his life, and he gave her a wide grin as she smiled back.

"Perfect timing, Clint. Thank you; my jet got in a half hour ago," Potts said as she helped Clint drag Tony to the large bed in the middle of the room.

Barton just nodded slightly and left silently, leaving Pepper to fuss over Tony and complain about his drinking. But as the darkness fell over them and silence reigned again, the genius wasn't bothered by fears of Pepper's death. Instead, he thought of further improvements he could make to the prototypes Clint had helped him develop.

He slept well that night.

* * *

The fifth night, it was Natasha.

She couldn't sleep, as usual. Her dreams were taken into the realm of nightmares by past mistakes and Loki's voice. She couldn't even breathe in her room. So she headed to the training room, intent on taking her frustrations out on a punching bag. Instead, when she got there, she saw something else that changed her mind.

One of the walls was a single, huge pane of reflective glass. She didn't even want to know the enormity of the challenge Stark's contractors faced getting it in there and mounted. But seeing it shifted her mindset, changed her thoughts from pain to strange serenity.

Glancing over her shoulder to make sure she was alone, she slipped out of her boots and took off her loose zip-up hoodie, letting the air wash over her bare shoulders, her chest covered only by a sports bra. She let silent music float over her, and then she swept out her right foot in a long, trailing arc. She repeated the move with her left foot, loosening up her muscles. Popping up to her toes, she spun once, then twice.

And then she danced.

Even with the falsehood of her memories, she loved ballet. The order, the grace, the flowing precision. It all called to her like nothing else in the world. So she pirouetted and jumped, spinning and banking. Her arms flowed like waves and she danced mindlessly, losing herself in the pull of gravity against her body as she dipped and twirled. She halfheartedly wished her partner was there.

And suddenly, he was.

Glancing into the mirror, she saw him at the door, his gaze darker than usual, his hawk eyes tracing her every movement. She didn't stop, didn't falter, and instead closed her eyes and danced on. She listened for his steps as she listened to the melody in her mind, hearing both simultaneously.

She felt his hands on her hips and he turned with her, her eyes fluttering open. The ballet changed into something of a hybrid between tap and jazz as they moved around each other like water and oil, her socked feet hitting the floor lightly, his boots clicking against the hardwood floor.

His hands traced her curves while her fingers danced over his shoulders, their moves morphing into a tango, the dances they'd learned for undercover missions melding into each other. She was dimly aware of a waltz shifting into a club grind, of some traditional Irish step dancing fading into hip hop. They rolled through their shared repertoire, neither speaking, their eyes never leaving each other.

Focused as they were, minutes turning into hours, she was surprised when he missed a step and stumbled into her, breaking the thrall that had held both of them as they danced to nothing at all.

She caught him by the shoulders and asked, "You okay?"

He gave her a slight grin in response and murmured, "Yeah. Just can't keep up with you so well anymore."

She smiled softly and kissed him lightly on the forehead, a chaste reminder of the trust they shared in each other. He blushed a bit at the sentiment – he was always a little uncomfortable with affection – and it was then that she noticed he was paler than normal. The shadows under his eyes were darker than usual, too.

"I kept you up past your bedtime, Barton," she chastised gently, and they headed up towards the living area together.

He walked her to her door and ducked his head as he repaid her earlier gesture with a light kiss on her hand.

"Sleep well, Tasha," he whispered, and then he disappeared into the shadows.

To her surprise, she did.

* * *

It wasn't the sixth night, or the seventh. It wasn't even the eighth.

The ninth night, it was Clint.

They were all in the living room together, for once, going over some contracts that SHIELD wanted them all to sign at oh dark thirty in the morning. It had devolved from a meeting for SHIELD into some sort of strange "get to know the Earth" session for Thor and Steve, both of whom were trying to understand something called 'the cinnamon challenge'. Tony was trying to convince them to try it while Bruce loudly decried it, speaking of vomiting in large amounts.

"Sir, I apologize for the interruption," Jarvis started to say overhead, and Tony snapped to the ceiling, "If you're going to apologize, then don't do it!"

Just as dryly, Jarvis replied, "Yes, sir, but you've always told me it's better to seek forgiveness than permission."

Pausing, Tony gave a nod and said, "All right, you got me. What's up?"

There was a marked hesitation in the AI and the group quieted, waiting.

"I believe Agent Barton is in some distress and may need assistance, sir."

Natasha frowned and glanced around. She knew Barton didn't necessarily like large crowds lately, but he could always be counted on being somewhere in sight, even if he wasn't in the middle of the group. But she couldn't see his gray eyes near any corner anywhere.

"Did the man get stuck in a vent, finally?" Tony snorted, laughing at some private joke.

Steve shook his head while Thor still stared up at the ceiling, always impressed by the AI's capability to be everywhere and nowhere.

"No, sir. He's currently in his designated room. His blood pressure is spiking and he appears...to be in need of assistance. I believe I should inform you that according to my sensors, Agent Barton has not slept in approximately two hundred and sixteen hours. He appears to be suffering from long-term total sleep deprivation. I recommend immediate intervention, sir."

They all froze and then moved as one, dashing down the halls towards the cluster of bedrooms. Steve reached the door first, trying the old fashioned handle before realizing it was locked with an electronic pad.

Tony saw his frustration and snapped, "Jarvis?"

The AI responded quickly, "It appears Agent Barton has terminated my lock access at his door. Force is your best option, sir."

Steve nodded and backed up, kicking at the door. It didn't give a bit. Banner frowned and watched Tony curse and pull at the electronic control panel next to the door. Thor grabbed his hammer from his belt and slammed it against the door, cracking the secure entry, and another hit had the thing flying open on its hinges. The group crowded at the doorway and stopped, breathing in the scene.

The room had been destroyed, all the furniture smashed to pieces, the mattress slashed, everything shoved against the far wall of the room. It was piled up about seven or eight feet, leaving about three or four feet of space between the top of the rubble and the ceiling. The stack of debris was situated perilously close to the floor-to-ceiling windows, of which all were broken. Soft wind blew through the room, and the group stared.

Clint was crouched on top of the shifting pile of debris, his back pressed against the wall, his neck angled so that he could see practically straight down the side of the building, his eyes tracking everything that moved below him, even in the dark. His bow was in one hand and an arrow sat easily on the frame, ready to be pulled and loosed at any given moment.

And there was blood, a lot of it.

"Jarvis, why the hell didn't you tell us about this earlier?" Tony asked softly, and the AI responded just as quietly, "Agent Barton was able to somehow locate and sabotage my sensors, sir. I just managed to get them back online a few moments ago."

Natasha was the first one to step forward, her hands out and empty, a universal gesture of peace.

"Clint? It's me, Natasha," she said soothingly, her voice dipped to an octave reserved for frightened children and animals.

He didn't really acknowledge her presence, his eyes never leaving their tracking of potential targets. She got close enough to see that the blood was all coming from random cuts on his hands and arms, obviously from when he'd dismantled his room and shattered the windows. There were a few bleeding heavily enough that she was worried.

"Clint, you need to sleep, okay? You need to take a break. It's okay."

He glanced at her then, the glazed and bloodshot eyes shocking her, before he turned his attention back to the world outside. Trying again, she took another step forward and her foot scuffed the side of the rubble. Clint looked sharply at her, alarm on his features, his bowstring tightening a bit before he recognized that she wasn't a threat. Still, he gave her a warning look, and she backed off, only stopping when he turned his attention back to the world outside.

Natasha looked back at her teammates and shook her head, knowing the state he was in; it was, of course, just like Budapest all over again.

"We stay here. We don't leave. He'll come down when he feels we're safe," she ordered, no argument in her tone.

They all looked at Clint, who was completely ignoring them, and nodded. With Steve's direction and Tony's approval, they pulled together a bunch of blankets and pillows, Bruce passing out bottles of water and energy bars to the group. They all lounged silently in the destroyed room, and Natasha wondered what a sight they'd make to the rest of the world. The Avengers team, sitting on blankets, laying on pillows, on a tile floor, waiting for their Hawk to come down from his nest. But they talked softly, constantly letting Clint know they were there, and didn't attempt to get to him again.

It was nearing dawn, almost seven hours into their vigil, when they all were stirred out of a quiet game of 'would you rather' by a soft sound. They looked up, surprised, as Clint nodded to himself and slid his unused arrow back into his quiver. He kept his bow in his hand and slid down the side of his mountain of debris with ease no one thought he should have. He walked to the edge of the impromptu lounge and cast his dull gaze to each team member individually. Steve swallowed hard as he saw the man walk closer to Natasha, immediately chivalrous despite his intimate knowledge that she could handle herself.

But Clint simply dropped to his knees and crashed to the blanketed floor beside her, passing out before his head hit, not the hard floor, but her arms, as she grabbed him as he fell. She said nothing but hugged him close, ducking her head a bit, dancing through her mind with him. Bruce and Steve shifted over a bit so that he had room, helping Tony and Natasha strip the man of his various weapons and ammo. Bruce bound up his various cuts with the first aid kit they'd brought in on one of their trips, and Clint stayed in Natasha's arms, sleeping like the dead in the middle of the group, finally feeling everyone was safe.

The team watched him for a few minutes, alternating between pity and awe, his single-minded determination at maintaining their physical and mental safety shocking. Then they discussed plans on how to make the building as Hawk-accessible as possible, because Tony really didn't care to keep replacing the windows and furniture.

Afterward, as they reclined and relaxed as the sun started lighting up the sky, they were confident that come next midnight, they'd all be sleeping sound.

* * *

End


End file.
